“And it isn’t going to be you.” Gavril’s words were a low rumble, the sound swallowed by the screaming alarms and the crackle of overstressed conduits. Tashya felt the sudden, brutal impact of his palm against her chest, a surprising force that sent her stumbling back. The heavy hatch to the burning room swung shut with a dry clang. Then the metallic *snick* of the external lock engaging. He’d thrown her out. He’d locked himself in. “Gavril!” she shrieked, pressing her palms against the scorching metal, the heat instantly searing her skin through her thin work gloves. The reinforced observation window, already crazed with heat fractures, glowed a baleful orange. Inside, through the distorted glass, she saw him. Sweat plastered dark hair to his temples as he grappled with the control board. The air in the corridor shimmered. He had his hand on the manual override, his body shielded only by thin steel from an engine block that threatened to blow the wing to splinters. “Fool!” she snarled, striking the door with her fist, a useless gesture against the unyielding steel. Her vision swam, not just from panic, but from the encroaching fog of her own failing lungs. Each rasping intake of air was a knife. She could already feel the tremors of the unstable generator vibrating through the very floor beneath her feet. The temperature in the corridor climbed, an oppressive, suffocating blanket. Suddenly, a flash of white fur. From a narrow, dust-choked ventilation shaft near the ceiling, a tiny, familiar head poked out. Pip. The creature’s black eyes fixed on Tashya for a fraction of a second, then darted to the glowering vault. It didn't hesitate. With surprising agility, Pip squeezed through the vent’s rusted grate, landing softly on the metal casing directly above the primary cell. In its mouth, clutched carefully, was a long, segmented vine, shimmering with an impossible, crystalline frost. It was a rapid-freeze variant, one of Tashya’s bio-engineered marvels from the greenhouse, designed to instantly solidify anything it touched. Gavril, still wrestling with the levers, his back to the vent, hadn't turned. The heat radiating from the core was so intense it warped the air, making it difficult to distinguish forms. Tashya pounded the viewplate. “Pip, no! Get out of there!” But the little creature had a mission. With a determined wiggle, Pip dropped the vine. It unfurled perfectly, a living icicle, coiling around the manual override switch that Gavril was straining to keep pressed. The moment the vine made contact, a cascade of white vapor erupted. The air in the room, superheated seconds before, instantly condensed into a thick, swirling snow-cloud. The vine’s rapid-freeze properties caused the core’s magnetic lock to constrict, then – with a distinct, metallic *thunk* – release. The thermal-core battery, a cylinder of dull, gleaming metal, shot out of its housing and clattered onto the desk. The unstable generator, deprived of its power source, shuddered violently once, then went silent. The roaring alarms died. Silence. Utter, profound silence, broken only by the drip of melting ice and Tashya’s ragged gasps. The hatch hissed open. Gavril stumbled out, coughing, his hair and clothes dusted with a fine layer of frost, his face pale beneath the grime and sweat. He was alive. He was *alive*. Before Tashya could even process the rush of relief, a loud, guttural roar echoed from the main factory floor. Uncle Brask, his face purple with rage, was being dragged out by two burly factory workers, his expensive overcoat torn. “You’ll regret this! All of you!” he shrieked, his words dissolving into choked protests as they hauled him toward the exit. Gavril took one step toward Tashya, his arm outstretched, the thermal-core cradled in his other. He took in the blue tint spreading across her lips. “Tashya?” The world tilted. The frost on Gavril’s clothes seemed to shimmer and expand, consuming her vision in a dizzying whiteout. The knives in her lungs twisted, and a cold, clammy dread spread through her veins. Her legs buckled without warning. The ground rushed up to meet her. “Terminal stage,” she thought, a detached whisper in the back of her mind, just before darkness claimed her. When she next opened her eyes, the oppressive heat of the factory was gone, replaced by the familiar, comforting chill of their cellar. She was lying on a makeshift cot, and above her, Gavril’s face was etched with a raw fear she’d never seen before. He was holding her hand, his thumb tracing worried circles against her skin. Pip sat perched on his shoulder, a small, anxious sentinel. He had already moved her. Already brought her down to the library. The core. The *core*. Her gaze drifted to the physical terminal of her library, a sleek, anachronistic apparatus she’d salvaged and repaired, now humming with low, expectant energy. The completed thermal-core, both halves joined seamlessly, was slotted into a recessed port at its base. It glowed faintly, a steady, warm amber. Gavril leaned over the station, his voice tight. “I… I plugged it in. Tashya, I don’t know what to do next.” Just then, the main display flickered to life. Instead of the usual welcoming interface, a stark, neon red message pulsed across the screen, each letter a burning accusation: [BIOMETRIC SYNC: TWO HEARTS REQUIRED.]

Marmot Ex Machina